Jewel Net
by nonhic
Summary: Post-Requiem, ignores S8-S9. No one's pregnant, either...
1. Jewel Net

When I was a young boy, a man told me a story.

"The universe," he said, "the universe is a net. The net stretches forever in all directions; it reaches everywhere and touches everything. And at each point of intersection lies a jewel. Every jewel reflects all other jewels. This is the nature of the universe."

"Isn't that beautiful?" he asked.

The very notion terrified me.

...

When Mulder went missing in Oregon, I should have fled. I should have run off to the coldest place I could find because I still couldn't get the sweat and heat left over from Tunisia off of my skin. I stayed in D.C. instead.

'What for?' Marita asked me. 'What makes you think she'll talk to you?'

I told her to mind her own business.

I waited outside her apartment, staked out her workplace, spent too many nights on Mulder's couch. Scully was nowhere to be found. Finally, I went to Skinner. He postured a bit and resisted, but I worked on him a little and he gave in. He didn't ask about my intentions - for all he knew I could have wanted her dead. He told me anyway. Technology is a scary thing.

The short, balding one refused to open the door for me. He threatened me behind all those bolts and locks and booby-traps.

'She's not here,' the bearded one said. So I came back until she would see me. On my third try she pressed her gun into the scars on my back as I was led through a mess of papers, wires, circuit boards. I remember the pain that spread from the contact point of the muzzle to the tops of my shoulders. Gifts from a particularly sadistic North African.

In the end she accepted. She had to. We were both desperate.

...

I sit in my car, waiting for her to arrive. We've been meeting on and off for a little over two months now, but lately I've seen her less frequently. News of Mulder has been slow, and I have nothing of use to give her. This time is different though - it was her who requested we meet. I nearly choked on my drink when she told me over the phone.

She's here. Not empty-handed, either. She slips into the passenger seat and drops the stack of folders in her lap. We're silent as I drive to my pre-determined spot. It's a cheap little diner in the industrial part of town. She wouldn't want to be seen with me in place nicer than this.

We go inside and order. Two coffees. She takes it black, like the times before.

"So," I ask, "what's this about?"

She thumbs through the folders and glances around the place.

"Any news?"

"No," I say. "If there were, it would have been me who called this meeting."

She's still absently flipping through the papers. I let her stall. I have nothing else to do today, and I'd rather spend it with herthan stare at the wall in my apartment.

"The files you gave me last month," she finally says, "about the abductions."

I nod. I'd given her several profiles and medical records of people taken by the Colonists. They were part of a group of abductees who were divvied out to be tested on in various Colonist-controlled facilities on U.S. soil. The details were gruesome, but it wasn't my intention to scare her. She insisted on understanding what they might be doing to Mulder, and I foolishly gave in to her desperate concern.

"There's a place in rural Pennsylvania," she explains. "I have reason to believe that it's being used to house some of these abductees."

"I know of the place. It's not what you think it is."

"You know about it and you didn't tell me?" I feel her contempt for me grow with every word.

"Scully, he's not there."

"How do you know?" she snaps.

I sit back in my chair and lean away from the anger in her words. Her demeanor has hardened a bit since we started our meetings; it became especially noticeable when news stopped trickling in altogether. She should be a wreck, but she's not. There isn't a hair out of place; her clothing is still impeccable. She looks grim, cold and perfect. If she ever wanted to cut me with her sharp edges, I'd let her drain all the blood from my body. I owe her at least that much.

"Where are you getting these ideas from?" I ask.

She scoffs. "You were the one who gave me the files."

"No. Those files didn't reveal anything about specific locations. They were just medical records. If you have another informant, he obviously doesn't know what he's talking about."

It looks like I got her. She looks away, biting her lip. Don't be embarrassed, Scully. This is a little thing compared to the piles of shit I fed your partner from day one.

"It was the Gunmen," she explains. "They heard some rumors about this facility in Pennsylvania and what went on there. There are some parallels between the files you gave me and what they found in regards to medical procedures and abduction experiences."

It figures, leave it to those three idiots to stoke the fires of conjecture. Too bad they're right. Or rather, they were.

I struggle with the decision to give her a proper explanation. It's been weeks since we've heard anything about Mulder, and I don't know if she'll let this go so easily. Revealing intelligence isn't exactly a concern of mine - besides, there's no one left to answer for past crimes and discuss forgotten details. Things can turn to ash in a single moment; plans suddenly wither away, people simply cease to exist. The extinction of the Group's efforts. No one even saw it coming. I'm suddenly reminded of El Rico, of a man in a wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs.

If I tell her the truth, I wonder if she'll believe me. Something tells me that she won't, and it bothers me more than I'd like to admit. She deals with me because she is hopeful, but I know that she's never trusted me.

"The rumors are true, but your information is old," I say, unable to hide the defeat in my voice. "That particular facility was one of many. After the Group fell, these places have been left unchecked. They could have been shut down or abandoned. There might be residual Syndicate factions still intact - they could have taken over these labs. Either way, Mulder isn't there."

She's looking at me, no doubt mulling over my credibility, trying to determine my agenda. I don't back down and maintain my gaze. It's the truth, after all.

Suddenly, she gets up and collects the files.

"We're done here," she says and turns to leave.

She's already out the door by the time I dump several crumpled bills on the table. I chase after her and find her standing by the passenger-side door, waiting for me to unlock the car. I press the remote, the car beeps, and she gets in.

Something isn't right. I grip the steering wheel at the red light and try to shake it off. We never talk when it's not about business, but her silence this time isn't the same.

"What are you going to do?" I ask.

"What?"

"Don't even think about going there."

No answer. I floor it when the light turns green.

When her car is in sight she looks about ready to jump out the door while the wheels are still turning. I pull over near her sedan and watch her gather her things.

"Scully, leave it alone. It's a mess. I don't know who's in control of this facility, it's too risky. Besides, he's not there."

"Don't tell me what to do, Krycek."

Her seatbelt clicks and the door opens.

"Scully," I say softly, "don't go."

She stops and looks at me carefully, a somewhat puzzled look on her face. My throat tightens under her gaze. I want to pull her to me, make her feel just how sorry I am, how grateful I am to her. I want her to understand that she's singular among all the people I've known, people who kicked me when I was down and betrayed me. I don't want her to go to Pennsylvania. But in my silence her expression hardens, and she turns away.

I sit in my car and watch her drive off. I stare at the perfect white lines in the empty parking lot until the sun sets and it's pitch black. Then I go home.

...

When the man told me that story about the jewel net, all I could think about was how horrifying it is. We're trapped forever, destined to live our lives in the one place where all other miserable souls live theirs. You share in the pain reflecting off everyone else; your happiness is stolen and distributed to those around you. When I was young I knew I didn't want to be part of it. I told myself that I would escape.

And here I am, tangled up in this net so badly that I'm suffocating. I thrash in my binds and they cut me deeper. It wouldn't be so bad, save for the fact that I'm bringing Scully with me; everyone else can get dragged down to Hell along with my sorry ass for all I care.

I sent Mulder to look for the ship because that's what he wanted. It didn't matter to me then; I knew the story would end the same way whether Fox Mulder found his precious truth or not. And it didn't matter whether the smoking bastard lived or died, so I took care of that too. But when Mulder went missing, I knew I had screwed up even though it still didn't change a thing. Scully's paying for my mistakes now, like she always did. It doesn't make me happy, but that's the way it is. She feels my pain, and I feel hers.

I went to Scully with a plan in mind. I would help her bring Mulder back and walk out of this for good. But nothing works out the way I want it to. In my struggle to extricate her from this mess I've created, I've managed to entangle and pull her down further. I don't want her to go to Pennsylvania. I'm afraid she might not come back. Of course it doesn't matter in the end, but it matters to me. I want to cut her loose and free her from myself. I want her to escape because I cannot.

-end-


	2. PA

Her leg was hurt, she was sure. It was numb and could be broken, but she didn't know how badly because she hadn't tried to walk on it yet. Other things hurt - head, shoulder, stomach. There was a sudden pressure on her neck, enough to make her cough and gasp.

'Don't go,' he had said.

The pain in her skull preceded the blackout.

...

It wasn't hot and humid anymore; she was outside. The cold wind woke her a little and she started to shake. She came here looking for Mulder, and maybe she found him. Someone was holding her up, whispering her name.

"Mulder?"

"No. Come on, Scully, we have to go."

Her legs were numb, but she knew they were working underneath her. The ground was too soft, didn't give her enough traction to move quickly enough. The darkness added to the confusion. She couldn't tell if her eyes were open or closed.

...

Someone had grabbed her and struck the back of her head. She tried to resist, but nothing worked. They dragged her somewhere inside, then she smelled gasoline and felt the vibrations of rolling pavement underneath tires. It seemed like a long time before the car stopped. They dumped her on the ground and pulled her across the gravel. Then she was inside again; the air was stagnant and unbearable, but the pain was worse. They might have beaten her, but she didn't really remember.

Sometime later, she was cold and someone whispered her name. They were running on a soft surface made of leaves.

But now the ground was frozen and hard, pressed against her cheek. There wasn't any wind, but the air still stung. Someone was saying her name again. She knew it wasn't Mulder. If her body wasn't hurting so badly already then she would have felt the fresh pain  
that came with that realization.

"Krycek..."

No answer. Maybe he didn't hear her.

A hand slid over her body, warm and clinical. Scully whimpered at the physical contact and pulled away. But he found her again, his fingers grasping lightly as he ran them along her legs and arms. She kept her eyes closed and pressed herself into the rough floor  
when he abruptly retreated.

But then his hand was on her again, slipping underneath her waist. She winced in protest, but it didn't hurt as he lifted her steadily  
and positioned her upright against the wall. He placed her arm around his neck and brought her legs over his hips until she sat in his lap. She smelled leather as he drew her arm down from his shoulders and wrapped her in his jacket.

"It's too cold on the floor, Scully."

She didn't remember how long they sat like that.

...

Krycek chased them for two days. In the afternoon he found the men's car parked outside an abandoned mill. He waited until it was dark and slipped through a back entrance. Inside he shot two of them dead, but the third man was still somewhere in the building. They were holding Scully in a small room on the underground level; he almost dropped her on the stairs when the familiar combination of oppressive darkness and stale air made him want to vomit.

They hid in a crumbling concrete storehouse less than half a mile away, obscured by a sparse strip of trees. Before they left the mill Krycek made sure to leave some things in disarray to create a trail for the third man to follow. He sat with Scully and waited for the man to find them so that he could finish things and take her home.

...

Three days in the hospital, then bedrest at home with the company of painkillers. Sometimes people were in her apartment, but Scully wasn't sure who everyone was or how often they came. Kitchen noises, running water, distinct and gentle voices. She thought she heard Frohike and Byers talking in the living room. No hint of Mulder.

On the second night at home she woke to find Krycek sitting in a chair in her bedroom. She wasn't afraid, but his presence irked her. It should have been Mulder sitting there, but it wasn't. She wanted him out.

A faint sob was the only thing she could articulate, muffled by her pillow.

"Scully?" He sounded almost apologetic.

The room was dark and she was tired. She just wanted the pain to go away so she could sleep.

"Here to gloat?" she managed to murmur.

"No," he said.

He didn't speak after that, and Scully decided to give in to her exhaustion and tried to sleep. But her headache intensified and soon she was awake again. The small bottle of painkillers sat on her nightstand, but the glass of water was on the other side of her room on the dresser. She vaguely remembered Frohike mentioning that he'd get her something to drink, but in his absentmindedness he must have forgotten to place the glass somewhere within reach. He meant well, and Scully couldn't fault him for it. She'd have to dry swallow the pills.

In spite of the pain she tried sit up. Her arms were trembling and clumsy; her legs felt like dead weight. She didn't notice he was next to the bed until she felt his hand slip under her. He gingerly eased her to a sitting position before straightening, his dark figure motionless at her bedside.

She was paralyzed. His familiar movements, the smell of his leather jacket - they had sat together on the cold floor that night, his arm rubbing hers to keep her warm. He'd given her food and water, brought her to a hospital. Told the nurses who she was before he left. He had killed the men who took her.

She was fully awake now, the aching in her limbs was inconsequential to the twisting knot in her stomach. She turned her head up to look at him, to search his face and understand why he helped her, why he was here at all.

But he was walking away, back turned. She watched him cross the room, retrieve the glass of water and bring it to her. When he bent closer, Scully turned away. She couldn't look at him. She took the glass, popped a pill and drank. It didn't hurt as badly to slide back down under the sheets than it was to sit up. Scully settled on her side, facing him.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

She heard him sigh as he crouched down beside the bed. He was looking away, and even in the semi-dark she could tell his jaw was clenched. He looked as if he were cut from glass, the hard lines that shaped his brow down to his chin were raw and severe. Mulder had a soft, benign quality to his face - a stark difference to what she was seeing now. The man in front of her did not look human.

"I'm not here to hurt you," was all he said.

His head dipped suddenly and she couldn't see him anymore. She could only see darkness, the black color of his hair and shoulders.

They were silent for a long time. He stayed down on the floor,his form barely moving.

"Krycek."

His head jerked up a little, but his eyes were downcast.

"Why are you here?"

He let out a breath and shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know," he said.

His eyes darted to hers, then looked away.

She realized then that he was scared. There was uncertainty in the blackness of his eyes, an emptiness that stunned her. She had seen him frightened before, when she found a crazed Mulder beating him senseless into the hood of a car. But that had been a different kind of fear, primitive and full of panic. Not the same as tonight. He looked broken and alone, folded into himself on the floor of her bedroom.

Her heart shrank a little, an involuntary reflex that quickly subsided. But the dull ache still lingered; his quiet, pointed sorrow was strangely troubling. Mulder would have sneered, but she was only human. Krycek was too.

She could absolve him of his transgressions for tonight. In the morning things would be different, but one night was enough in exchange for what he had done for her. She hadn't forgotten about Pennsylvania.

It was too much to put into words. She wasn't sure if there was a proper way to say it. So she reached a hand out - a sudden impulse, and let her fingertips come to rest on his brow. She slid her fingers through his hair, his skin trembled against her open palm. But he didn't pull away as she expected; he merely shuddered and tilted his head up slightly to meet her caress.

"Scully?"

She drew her hand back and spoke softly. "Go home, Krycek."

He looked up at her. His pupils were dilated, darkness edging out the faint color in his eyes.

"Go home," she repeated.

She felt him hesitate before he rose from his position and moved noiselessly towards the door. All she heard was a soft click before she was alone again.

Scully slept and dreamt of Mulder. No nightmares tonight. Only mild dreams that would be half-remembered upon waking, then forgotten in the day. She almost expected to hear Mulder's voice before she opened her eyes.

When morning came and the pills wore off, Scully woke up to an empty apartment.

-end-


	3. Monastir

_To clarify, the Rebels are pushing hard against the Colonists,_  
_causing chaos on the Colonists' side and forcing them to relinquish_  
_some abductees. Meanwhile, a few remaining members of the original_  
_Syndicate in Tunisia are trying to profit from it. Krycek takes_  
_advantage of the situation._

...

I was in the middle of taking a shower the first time she called after Pennsylvania. She wanted to meet in ten minutes.

My hair was still wet by the time I got there. She was sitting in a corner booth with her hands together on the table, waiting. I remember being angry, irritated. My prosthesis was chafing me horribly, the back of my neck was prickly with water and sweat. I hate being in a hurry. I don't like being summoned.

She didn't say anything as I took a seat across from her and asked how she was doing. Embarassed by my anger, I squirmed while she stared at the table.

'Is he dead?' she said finally. I don't remember how I answered, but I remember my voice cracked. All my fault. She looked at me coldly while I fumbled over my words, the disgust was plain on her face. She left me sitting in the dark booth of the dingy bar, cigarette smoke stinging my eyes.

The next time she told me to come to her place. I expected to get as far as her front door, but she ushered me inside and had me sit on the couch. She grilled me gently about a lot of things; some things were relevant to Mulder, others were not. At that point I decided that the only meetings I'd attend would be the ones that I arrange myself. But she stopped asking questions and looked at the floor, her jaw shifting back and forth while she considered something that I could only guess at.

I got up to leave because I didn't know what else to do.

'Don't go,' I heard behind me. Softly, almost pleading.

She was sitting on the couch, a fading bruise still on her cheek, lips pressed together as if to withold a sob. Her eyes were wide, but no tears came because she would never cry in front of me. It wasn't something I could walk away from without an eternity of self-punishment. Scully, so small and alone, asking me to stay when I was taking the steps to remove myself from her life that I had so thoroughly destroyed. I couldn't bear it. I settled beside her on the cushions and draped my good arm over her shoulders, whispering unacknowledged apologies into her hair.

...

My weeks are marked by visits to her place. I can't help myself. Maybe it's the novelty of having a place to go to, or maybe it's something else. Sometimes she eyes me as she opens the door, but I don't care that she estimates how pathetic I am each time I show up. I checked in my pride a long time ago when it came to her.

We sit and talk. At first our conversations centered around Mulder, but as news of him waned she mercifully decided that speculation  
wouldn't do any good. All the better for me.

So we talk of other things, little things that don't matter to me but make her stop and think. We talk about what I know, what I don't  
know. We talk about the dead - the smoking man, the Brit, the late Diana Fowley. We don't discuss her sister. We seldom talk about  
ourselves.

She asked me once about my arm. I grimaced between words and she caught it. I rolled up my sleeve and let her look it over because she wanted to; I accepted the pills she gave me because the pain was particularly bad that night. My head was heavy and my ears were buzzing as I stammered out what little I could recall. Fragments, really - nothing that could form a whole, coherent story. I blamed it on the pills, but now I realize that it's because I've never had to explain it before. No one had ever wanted to know.

"What's this from?" she asks tonight. On the back of my neck I feel the tickling numbness that accompanies her question.

I'm sitting at her dining table while she stands next to me. 'Forj Sidi Toui,' I want to tell her, 'They did this to me every day before Marita came to get me.' I turn in my chair to face her, unsure if I should answer.

I feel her fingers run gently over the length of the concave blemish, as if to fill in the flesh that had been lost. I see her frown as she finds the intersecting lines, then the hardened mass of scar tissue that continues down my back.

"Krycek," she says, a little sternly, her hand still down the back of my shirt.

She looks at me strangely, brows furrowed. I shy away and shrug in response. There is nothing for me to say.

She slides her hand to my cheek, then smooths her fingers over my temple and hair, like she did that night when I came to see her. I press my forehead into her hip without thinking. Her hand comes around to cradle my skull.

Nothing. I think of nothing in her embrace. I empty my mind and ignore the pulsing of my phantom limb. There is no me, no Mulder, no Scully. My instincts are dulled; I can only feel my breathing. In this state there are no uncertainties nor are there concrete truths. I can never tell in these moments if things are suddenly clear to me or if my mind is muddled. It's a vacancy that I don't often visit.

An unknown amount of time has passed when I realize that this isn't how it's supposed to be.

"Hate me," I say after a long silence. Her fingers are still in my hair.

"What?"

"Hate me."

I know I can never finish this if she doesn't.

...

"The Rebels are winning," he says.

"Oh?"

"Plans are speeding up, supposedly."

"So what's the new timetable?"

He pauses. How dramatic. I'm asking him about the end of the world and he acts like he's telling me a ghost story.

"Don't know yet," he shrugs. "But the guy you were asking about - Mulder? They're bringing him back."

"Back?"

"He was never here," he snaps. "He was off- you know. With the others." His hand waves in the air as frowns at me impatiently.

"Where can I find him?"

"No idea. Kaiser's men know, though."

"Strughold's guy?"

"Yeah," he says, smirking. "He wasn't even in the U.S. when that shit went down at El Rico."

"So why are they bringing Mulder back?"

"He's special, isn't he? Some mind-reading bullshit, right? I don't know. They're scrambling after the Rebels' latest attack, so it's all a mess. Kaiser somehow got the info. He wants to sell it."

I know I'm not going to pay for it. "How do I contact him?"

He gets up to leave and drums his fingers on the table. Even this little gesture annoys me. I barely know my contacts, but he's the one I detest the most.

"Just call up Reynolds. Kaiser's guys are coming here."

...

There's a key in my pocket. It opens the mailbox of an apartment not far from my little hideaway. The place is empty; it belongs to man who doesn't exist. Inside the mailbox there's a disc, a disc that I stole less than forty-eight hours ago from a bunch of amateurs fresh off a plane from Monastir by way of Gatwick. I consider it revenge for time served in Tunisia. But it's not really about me - the disc is for her. It contains what she wants, what she's waited for for all these months.

This should put an end to all of this. I should be glad, but I'm not. I don't know what to feel.

I drop the key behind the gas meter of a building two blocks from where I live. It's two am and I've been up too long. Scully gets  
her disc tomorrow.

...

I wake up with the taste of metal in my mouth. Not an unfamiliar situation. I lift my head and find that the side of my face has adhered to the drying blood on the floor.

There's a man lying next to me. His body is still. It occurs to me that I killed him in our struggle and a second man got away. They were here to get something. I remember the hard muzzle of the gun cutting into my jaw, a calm voice with a foreign accent asking me in broken English about the location of a disc.

I roll onto my back, fluid rushes to my head. It's still dark. Early morning, maybe. I stumble out the door. The cold wind makes me gasp, makes my ears numb. It's only by the time I get to the gas meter and grasp the key in my fingers that I realize the blood on the floor was mine. I look down at my shirt and see that I'm bleeding myself out through a wound in my side.

...

I'm shaking so hard that I can barely talk when Scully opens the door. Her reaction doesn't register because I'm concentrating on the words spilling out my mouth.

"This disc. This will tell you where he is," I say, forcing the object into her hands.

I try to say more but she's talking over me, pulling me inside.

"Krycek, please," she says in earnest, "come inside, you're bleeding to death."

This isn't the end, I know it. She needs more than this disc, she needs access. She needs to know that he's coming back, but there's  
no telling what state he'll be in when she finds him. I want her to understand the consequences of what she seeks.

My mouth hangs open and I choke on my words.

"I'm taking you to the hospital," she says.

The burning in my lungs clamps down on my chuckle. I push her away and turn to leave, but she grips my forearm and won't let go. It's  
not smart but I stop and glance at her because I want at least one clear memory of this chaotic departure before I'm gone.

"Wait," Scully says, "just wait."

She runs off into the darkness of her apartment but I dare not enter. I lean on the doorframe and struggle to breathe between the  
chattering of my teeth and the convulsing agony that racks mybody. It's a mystery why I'm still here. Through the spasms I stare at the blood-streaked disc discarded on the floor.

When she returns, there's something in her hands. I feel her arm around my waist as she draws me inside. It feels good, warm.

"No." It comes out as a strangled groan. I think this time she knows I mean it.

I start down the hallway and hear her voice behind me.

"Take this."

Take what - the disc? Why would she...

Scully comes up to me and throws something over my shoulders.

"You're cold," she says. Her voice is dull and low.

It's a jacket. Something to cover me up because I've been stumbling around town in a cotton t-shirt on a night in February. She's grasping the lapels, still willing me to come inside.

This is too much. Her decency towards me claws at my insides, it hurts in a way that makes me want to beg without reason. She's looking up at me, and I look at her too. Her eyes are wild and serious, but I just stare and wheeze. When I feel the heat and sting in my eyes, I know I have to go.

I push her away, cruelly this time, and drag my shoulder across the wall as I stagger down the hallway.

I see stairs, then sunlight and concrete. I pick a car and my brain watches my fake and human fingers struggle with the wires to start the engine.

In the early morning I drive away. I drive away to get myself stitched up, to pick up some cash and new IDs. I drive away from her. I don't know where I'm going. There are a million places to hide, but that doesn't concern me. In my mind, I see her face.

She is free, I tell myself. She is free, she is free, she is free...

-end-


	4. Charles

"You have the coordinates?"

"Yes."

"Good. The building has one entrance, on the west side. There are biometric security checks at each wing, but you'll be in their system for a certain period of time to access the labs. Bring only one other person if you need to."

Scully slid her fingers along the edge of the envelope Marita had given her. "What kind of biometric measurements?"

"Vein patterns," Marita said. "Right hand and forearm."

"You have that kind of information?"

"Agent Scully, you and I have no more secrets to share with the state."

Scully ignored the bitter remark and opened the envelope. It contained an index card with a number printed on one side, a date and time on the other.

"That's the lab number, in the north wing. Agent Mulder will be there, but- I need to warn you. We aren't sure what condition  
he'll be in when you find him. He might be different."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm only here to relay information, Agent Scully. I don't knowany more than what I've told you. But whatever they've done to him, anything is possible. You need to be understand that." Her neutral tone ended on a softer note. She turned around to leave when Scully said nothing and sat in the chair, still thumbing the stiff corners of the card.

"He sent you."

Marita stopped by the door. "Yes," she said carefully, as if she were about to give something away.

"So he's alive."

"He was a week ago," Marita said. "That might not be the case now."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No."

"Is there any way to reach him?"

Marita stared at Scully and didn't answer.

"You trust him." She said it like an accusation.

Something in Scully's throat burned at the idea. The answer was simple, but saying it aloud would somehow feel spurious, empty. She opted to stay silent. She didn't need to defend herself.

"Go find Agent Mulder," Marita said. "But be careful of Alex."

...

She woke up to ringing of the phone. It was a heavy, coarse sound, different from the one of her primary landline. It was the line she  
used to contact Krycek, when he was still here and Mulder was gone. There had been no need for it after awhile; she stopped using it  
when he had begun to show up regularly at her door. His number had been disconnected after he had left, but she kept her line anyway. She wasn't sure exactly why.

The phone had rung before. The first time, she picked it up and held her breath, hoping Mulder was still asleep and too exhausted  
from his ordeal to have heard it. She waited for the sound of her name on the other end, but it never came. There was only a brief  
silence, then the even blare of the dial tone.

The subsequent phone calls came once a month, then tapered as the weather turned warm. Always in the evenings, never a word from the other end. She stopped picking up the phone after the second time. It was easier to lie in the dark and wait for the rings to stop.

She counted them off tonight. Seven. The silence that followed was always more unsettling than the ugly discord that precededed it.

...

She sat at the desk while Mulder was upstairs getting coffee. Daily routines were beginning to fall back into place. Whispers in the  
hallway had died down; only a few colleagues acknowledged Mulder's presence at all. He ignored their perfunctory nods like he ignored  
the gossip that ran wild upon his return.

He hadn't changed since coming back. At first she was vigilant, watching his mannerisms, turning the things he'd said over in her  
head, looking for something that might reveal what she feared the most. But in the end she saw nothing that would be cause for alarm. He was himself. She wouldn't have known what to do if it hadn't turned out that way.

He didn't remember a thing. 'I was in the woods, and now I'm here,' he had said, while he lay in her bed and scratched at a scab on his collarbone.

She found him in Utah. It was an unmarked building, a glowing, white box in the middle of nowhere. Strangely enough, it was empty.  
Skinner came with her; they entered the unmanned labs and found him sleeping on a gurney. A little bruised and battered, but  
otherwise unharmed. She cried in the car while Skinner drove, Mulder's body curled up against hers as they sat in the backseat.  
She cried because he was here again and because she couldn't forget Marita's warning.

'How did you find me?' he asked once.

'The Gunmen,' she had said, without thinking. It was true; they were the ones who had cracked the encryption on the disc and retrieved the coordinates. Mulder merely nodded and sank his head back into the pillow, content with her answer. She did not tell him about Krycek. Any clues of his presence from his last visit were gone. Mulder never seemed to notice the smell of lacquer from the freshly sanded hardwood floor at the entrance to her apartment.

It had been six months since she last saw Krycek. His absence felt strange; it was a perpetual dread that lingered in the back of her  
mind but never boiled over. It was just enough of a reminder that she had colluded with a man who had a hand in her illness and  
the death of her own sister. The fact that she felt any sympathy disturbed her.

When she was alone, Scully resigned herself to worrying. Mulder's voice was so stern in her mind, warning her of her naivete, that  
one day she'd realize the certainty and extent of Krycek's betrayal. Most days, though, she wondered where Krycek might be and if he  
had died. It was better not to think of it.

Her fingers were curled lightly, elbows on the edge of the table with her forehead resting on the heels of her hands. She jumped a  
little when Krycek whispered her name.

"Scully?"

She froze in her chair, unsure of what to do. He stood at the doorway, clutching the front of his jacket as he stared at her.

"You're alive." It was the only thing she could think of to say.

"I've been hiding," he conceded. "You found him."

"It was Marita," she said.

He nodded his understanding.

"The phonecalls-"

He ducked a little and looked away. "I- It was me. You're safe. No one else knows." He paused. "Why," he asked, "did you stop  
answering?

She sighed and glanced past him. Mulder would be back soon.

"Krycek," she said, "just tell me why you're here."

She saw him shift his posture and lean against the file cabinet by the door. His shoulders were hunched inward, the prosthesis appeared unusually prominent as it hung straight and stiff in front of him. His stance reminded her of his last visit, when he propped himself up against her doorframe as he bled on the threshold and told her he had to get away because they'd found him out. It hurt to know that she couldn't help despite his frenzied refusals as he shoved the disc in her hands. It hurt to know that she wanted to help him at all.

Krycek was reaching into his jacket. Her hand found its way to her weapon before she had time to think. Would he start laughing now,  
sneering at her stupidity, her loyalty to Mulder? They were back to the beginning - him sitting atop a stool as she stood with a finger  
on the trigger, her hip pressed against the edge of Langly's desk. Marita's words were suddenly fresh in her ears.

The moment came and went. A package. That's all it was. He slid it out from under his jacket and placed it on top of the file cabinet.  
An unknown thing wrapped loosely in brown paper, tied with twine, slightly bulky but without hard edges.

"For you."

"What is it?"

"Something of yours."

Damn him, he never explains anything. As he turned to leave Scully got up from the chair and approached the door. She managed to catch his arm as he turned away, and when he twisted around she could see his features settling into blankness. A part of her wondered what it was that he was trying to hide.

She leaned in and pulled him closer.

"Krycek-"

He stiffened at the sound of his name, but his eyes remained hollow.

"Krycek," she repeated, more quietly this time, "where have been?"

He looked her over carefully, his body still tense. "All over," he finally said. "But they're still looking for me."

"Then you shouldn't be here."

He nodded at her, his eyes on the floor.

"Are you all right?" she whispered.

He hesitated, and she thought she felt him shiver. "I lost a few contacts," he said after a long pause. "Most of my safehouses are  
compromised."

There was nothing helpful that she could think of to say, and he retreated from her when she didn't respond. Still, she kept her  
hold on him.

"Scully-" he began, but he stopped when she reached out and gently lifted his shirt. Her hand brushed his ribs as it came to rest at  
his side. She could feel the aberration that she was searching for, the soft contours of a healed wound at her fingertips.

Krycek's breathing was rapid and uneven, his pupils large and deeply somber.

Scully sighed. "Let me bring you in."

"You know I can't do that."

"I can help you."

"No," he replied evenly, "you can't."

She lowered her head at that, suddenly feeling exposed. Her hand was still on him, moving with him as he breathed.

"I'm sorry," she said after awhile. "Mulder will be here soon."

He nodded and turned to step out of her embrace, but she clung to his sleeve.

"I'll still be here, Krycek."

The look he gave her was long and strange, and when he reached around to draw her closer she didn't try stop him. He was soft  
and warm against her skin; the kiss he pressed to her forehead was clean and guileless to her conscience.

"Scully," he said, sighing into her hair. "Scully." When his hand slipped away from her back, she let him go.

She watched him disappear down the hallway before seizing the package and slipping it between the file folders inside her satchel. She would open it later.

...

The streets were wet. How different it was now compared to six months ago, when the air was dry and the wind made your eyes  
water. The bag swayed at her side as she walked up to her aparment building. Her eyes followed the path ahead, searched the  
shaded corners alongside the entryway. She found nothing. There was only the weeping stone facade, an empty vestibule that opened like a glowing mouth.

A few times she had come home late from work, and he would be out in the cold, lingering in the shadows by the main entrance.  
Maybe he didn't want to wait for her in the hallway and risk looking like a creep to her neighbors.

'Hey,' he'd say, and she would let him follow her in.

In the warmth of her apartment the color would return to his skin, the tip of his nose and ears would be slightly tinged with pink. The hard mask he wore would slip away into something milder and strangely brittle. She wondered at first if he did this delibrately, but she came to understand that this was not the case. It was Alex Krycek sitting on her couch. This was who he is in private.

On one occasion she had considered dialing Skinner while Krycek sat in the living room. Her cell phone was on the counter, if she  
went into the kitchen he wouldn't have been able to see her make the call. She watched him while he looked at the floor and sniffled.

"Catch a cold?" she had asked absently, wondering how she would talk to Skinner even as Krycek sat within earshot.

"No," he said. "It's just the winter air. I like the cold."

Even though they were several feet apart, she felt him shrink away from her when he finished speaking. He did that sometimes.

She was still looking in the direction of the kitchen when hesaid her name.

"Scully."

"What?"

"What do you know about Eastern religions?"

"Not a lot. Why?"

"Someone told me a story once," he said, quietly.

She watched the ridge of his throat rise and fall when he  
swallowed.

"It was a creation story," he said, "about how the Universe was formed from a net of jewels. They say that when we look at a single jewel, we see all the other jewels reflected on its surface. We live like this, he told me."

His voice dropped and he fell silent. His were lips parted, but he closed them, abruptly ending the narrative. He sighed and  
lowered his chin.

"It's the way it is," he said.

She stared at him, all plans to call Skinner had suddenly been forgotten.

"What do you think?" he had asked her. His eyes sought hers, vehement and oddly tenacious. He had given her this look before. It was after the raid in Queens; he had been sitting on the oil drums, dirt marking his cheeks, wrists twisting restlessly in handcuffs. He spoke of her sister. She had wanted to hit him, then. He was always so flippant with Mulder but so serious with her.

She didn't remember how she answered him that night in her apartment. Maybe she didn't say anything at all.

The only thing she could recall was the way he dipped his head and turned away, an image of the severe veins that clung to the skin of his neck.

"Never mind, dumb story."

She tracked down the obscure tale some time after Mulder came back. It was a Hindu myth, referenced in a philosophy book she  
borrowed from the library. She read the passage several times, but his meaning still eluded her. She had almost forgotten about it until one night, when his words surfaced through the heavy stillness as she lay in bed next to Mulder. It was only then that she realized that he was trying to convey his guilt.

Scully turned the key to to her door and entered, promptly dumping the satchel on the couch. After dinner, she thought, or she might lose her appetite.

...

It was getting late; she had already showered and was ready for bed. She turned the lights off but sat on the couch, not wanting to sleep. Her living room was warm even though the window was open. She hugged her knees and shuddered - sometimes she could  
still see Krycek shivering at the door.

Scully sat for a long while in the dark before reaching over to pull the package out from her bag. It gave way under her fingers and she had to grasp it tightly to keep it from slipping. The neat bow made of twine unraveled easily, and she parted the folds of brown paper.  
She felt a stab of guilt as she opened the package. Here she was, accepting something from a man who had nothing left to give.

She knew what it was before she saw it. Her hand slipped under the paper and she felt the stiff fabric on her fingertips.

'Charles,' it read, in heavy red embroidery thread. Just below the inside of the collar. Her brother's jacket. It seemed that Krycek had washed out the blood, but in the dark it was hard to tell.

She didn't understand. It didn't make sense for him came to her after half a year, still on the run, only to give her this. But then she never quite understood why he sought her in the first place. His intentions were as vague as he'd always been to her.

Scully left the jacket on the couch and padded to her bedroom.

Perhaps it was good-bye, she thought, or maybe an apology. He never did explain himself. The only thing she was certain of was the weight of the jacket in her hands as she read her brother's name and thought of Missy. Surely, Krycek had been thinking the same thing, too.

Her head was pressed against the pillow, an arm tucked underneath for support. Scully blinked in the dark and wondered where he was and if he was dead. She shut her eyes.

-end-


	5. Lepidoptera

He wakes up before the sun appears, when the air is cool and the street lights are still flickering. It's a personal habit, developed over many years - a consequence of his chosen profession. He's used to it and doesn't bother to try to fall back asleep. In the dark he lies awake, in a bed that isn't his own, and he listens for the sound of fabric against skin or the metallic clink of a gun. But the room is silent, and he rubs his eyes. Being utterly alone isn't always a curse.

He cracks his spine as he sits on the edge of the bed and puts on his socks. These rooms are always filthy; the maids merely drag their useless vacuums over the ragged tufts of carpet. It's the same in every place.

In the bathroom he does the usual routine, and when he's done he leans over the sink and surveys himself in the mirror. He hasn't shaved in several days, and he feels the roughness when his hand passes over his jaw. The stubble doesn't itch; he isn't particularly fond of it, nor does he dislike it. He wonders if it's worth the effort to get the razor out. Sometimes he wishes he had someone to tell  
him what to do about the little things. If only there were someone there to make these frivolous requests so that he may please them so easily. But in the end it's only him that stares into the mirror, and he tears his gaze away because it reminds him of that very fact.

He straps the prosthesis in place and dresses as quickly as having one arm would allow, then gathers his few things and dumps them in the backseat of the car. The attendant in the office is surly, irritated at being woken up from his nap in the early morning. But Krycek doesn't care and tosses the key on the counter. People don't bother him much anymore. He knows they're the walking dead.

The attendant grunts, and Krycek turns to leave. The hinge of the door gives a pitiful creak as he leaves yet another nameless motel.

On the open road he is calmer. Staying still is a risk; moving is better. He's on his way to a randomly-selected town that he picked from a coffee-stained road map the night before. In his head he calculates the week's travel expenses, a little worried about the thinness of his wallet tucked against his thigh.

He hopes there's a motel at his destination that is as cheap as the previous one. At this point his cash is running low and using his fake credit cards might leave a trail. He's hundreds of miles away from the major city where one of his stashes is located, and even then, he wonders if it will be there if he reaches it at all.

By noontime he is still driving; the road is empty and the grey clouds overhead form patterns on the open hills. He rolls down the window and smells the petrichor and guesses that it's about to rain.

When the drops begin to fall, he leaves the window open to breathe in the scent of wet earth, to listen to the tread of the tires stick and unstick from the asphalt. The water stings his cheek and he wipes it away with his shoulder.

He doesn't allow himself to think of her. There's no point in dwelling on the things that he can't have - he's learned this long ago. It's far too distracting, and that's the last thing he needs. But sometimes thoughts of her surface, and he feels the ache in his chest and the dryness in his mouth. He wants to forget, he wants to quell the memories, but at the end of the day he's helpless to stop them.

He was worried about her. He didn't know if the people after him would make the connection and look for her instead. When she picked up the phone the first time, he felt his jaw grow rigid, his sense of relief undermined and overwhelmed by an intense longing to be with her again. He remembers hanging up the phone and driving for hours in the darkness, cursing his own foolishness as he watched the headlights overtake the broken yellow lines of the highway.

When his phonecalls were left unanswered, he panicked and doubled-back, the only thing on his mind was to get to D.C. and see her. He found her outside her apartment, dressed for work, pushing open the doors of the same front entrance where he had waited for her on so many late nights. How good it was back then, to simply have someone to go to. He controlled the urge to chase after her, his nerves were shot and he'd barely slept in the last two days. Besides, he wasn't sure if she wanted to see him again.

He found a motel room and crashed, his right arm draped over his eyes to block the sunlight that seeped in through the blinds. At midnight he woke, decided to leave and began to round up his things. In the midst of his scattered belongings, he discovered the jacket she had given him. The canvas was stiff, hardened by cheap motel soap from when he washed out the blood, dried in the stale air of a dusty room that hadn't seen a guest in weeks. At first he had thought it was Mulder's, but while he let the jacket soak in the copper-colored water in the basin, he found a name sewn into the collar - a quaint little mark, suggestive of family and maternal affection. It belonged to her brother, he later realized. The name was in her profile when he had read it years ago, just weeks before  
Duane Barry, when he pulled her into this never-ending nightmare.

He had to return it. He had no right to keep something as personal as this. It would have been smarter to burn the jacket, but he didn't have the heart to do it. Her sister was gone because of him. He couldn't bear to take this away from her, too.

In the shadows he watched Mulder bound towards the elevator, leaving Scully in the basement office for him to find. The package crackled inside his jacket, and he wondered when he had become so careless and weak.

He accepted her initial coldness with resignation, it wasn't like he deserved anything else. But to his surprise she softened, and he found himself in deference to her concern and tender grip. She frowned a little when he reluctantly turned to leave, her eyes scanning empty space as she searched for the appropriate words.

'I'll still be here,' she had said, and he understood her meaning. In that moment his mind went blank, and the only thing he could say was her name. He whispered it into her hair as he held onto her, and even now he can remember the way she felt against his chest while something inside of him broke.

He grips the steering wheel. The dampness on his face isn't only from the rain coming in through the window. His lungs shut down; there's burning sensation in the pit of his stomach that rips its way into his throat. He slams the brakes and pulls over, stumbles into the muddy ditch and retches.

He hasn't eaten since last night, so nothing comes out, only the bitter lining of his gut. He kneels on the ground, chest heaving as he struggles to breathe. The rain mingles with his tears and suddenly he feels ashamed. But there isn't anyone there to see his pitiful display. The road is still empty and the only sound he hears is the soft plinking of raindrops against the hood of the car. With a slight sob he pushes off the ground and returns to the vehicle that is still humming on the side of the road.

Hopland, he thinks, as he slides into the driver's seat. That's where he's supposed to be. He shakes his head to sober up and tells himself that he needs to get some gas.

The rest of the day is a blur. He passes by countless reststops while he rain comes and goes but never ceases entirely. He doesn't listen to the radio; the metronomic shunting of the windshield wipers is enough to calm his nerves.

It's nearly dark by the time he makes it to the little town. His belly is full from whatever he picked up at the gas station, and thoughts of her have not yet returned. He pays for his room and stalks down the open passageway beneath the overhang.

Moths gather at the buzzing lights above every door; the dead ones have fallen to the bottom of each glass vessel. He thinks he understands how it happens: the moths look to the moon for direction but are misled by their own instincts, or perhaps they settle on the glowing surface to sleep, lulled by the artificial daylight and eventually meeting their demise. He sympathizes. They can't help it, he thinks, they want to escape the darkness, too.

He locates the room and does the usual sweep. He finds nothing. The phone sits in his lap, his bags are dumped at the foot of the bed. He wants to call her, but he can't think of anything to say. An hour passes and he feels foolish. This wasn't the plan, he tells himself, he was never supposed to feel this way about her.

He returns the phone to the nightstand and retrieves his toiletry bag. The light in the bathroom reveals web-like stains on the tile floor when he flips the switch. He turns on the water and prepares to take a cold shower because warm evenings like this still remind him too much of Tunisia. The cool water numbs his scalp, and he forces himself to stand under the spray even though his lungs are swelling.

She's on my side, he thinks. She isn't his, nor will she ever be, but he is hers and he knows she wouldn't turn him away. He takes solace in this scrap of clemency and bows his head under the sheet of water. It feels like her fingers in his hair, when she offered comfort for his scars. He lets the thoughts drain away, the hammering of the spray against the tub fills his ears.

How deluded he was to think that he could walk away so easily. His task is done, yet he finds that he's still beholden to her. He needs to see her again, in spite of Mulder, in spite of who he is and where he stands in this tangle of death and betrayals. He can't help it.

The sigh he lets out is ragged and tense, a subdued testimony to the growing warmth beneath his lowered lids. He rolls his head under the heavy drops, but they do little for his sorrow.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, for all his selfishness and want. The water runs down his cheeks and over his lips.

They make very little noise, just as he was trained to do. There are two men at his door, another in the car. He doesn't know they've found him.

He hears the faint rustle when they enter his room, but for once he brushes it off.

Just moths at the window, he thinks. They throw themselves against the glass, wanting to be let in because they can't help themselves.

-end-


End file.
